


like a refrain

by saliache



Series: Vampire Celebrimbor AU [1]
Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Akallabêth, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Annatar is secretly laughing in a corner, M/M, Miriel is the only sane woman, Miriel lives AU, Pharazon has no idea what is going on, Shenanigans, Tyelpe is okay about too many things that should not be okay, Unofficial Sequel, because she deserves a better ending, except the Valar, lots of headcanons popping up randomly, no one's ever gonna keep them down, sort of, they're the best around, to the original vampire Tyelpe fic, vampire Tyelpe in Numenor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-01
Updated: 2017-01-01
Packaged: 2018-09-13 22:06:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,474
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9144181
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saliache/pseuds/saliache
Summary: Celebrimbor is a vampire. In Numenor. Which is suitably traumatizing, but not to the right people.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [simaetha](https://archiveofourown.org/users/simaetha/gifts).
  * Inspired by [alteration](https://archiveofourown.org/works/8603116) by [simaetha](https://archiveofourown.org/users/simaetha/pseuds/simaetha). 



> Originally posted on tumblr. Now edited for clarity and typos!

If there was one thing you never expected of grand Númenórë, it was boredom. Palm trees line the grand avenues, slaves toil in the unrelenting sun, and Annatar worms his way into the King’s heart like a wasp laying her eggs in an unripe fig.

 But you have seen all this before. Glitter and gauze in excess, and nothing about the architecture is impressive. It’s all built for scale, rather than elegance or sturdiness or thrift. You have seen Annatar topple half a dozen kingdoms like this in the past millennium alone.

 It is such a waste, for the descendants of Lúthien herself. So much wasted potential. (At least her other great-grandson, Elrond, seems to be doing well for himself. Even if he does seem to be relying overmuch on your Ring to do it.)

 Beside you, Tar-Míriel takes a sip of her chocolate. You mirror her, trying not to wince. The stimulant, brewed thin and sweet, tastes nothing like what you imagine her blood to be like.

 “It is such a shame,” she sighs, “that we are come to this.”

  _This_ being the vista before the two of you, of half a dozen chained gangs of laborers straining to raise an oversized statue of the King in the central plaza. They are doing a terrible job, you think. You could have done better.

 “Some say that the rot began with Aldarion’s rule, when he expanded Numenor’s naval base, but it was a slow slide.” Míriel smiles bitterly. “It is always so difficult to tell which is the first step toward a long ruin.”

 “It is not something I find myself dwelling upon often, my lady.” It takes more difficulty to swallow your next bitter sip. You give up and put the cup down, smiling gently at the Queen. “But it falls to us to make the most of a difficult situation.”

 One of the guards steps forward and clears his throat. You get the message. To him you flash a brilliant smile, sliding out of your chair and toward him in a way that puts pressure on your joints but, you have discovered, looks suitably disturbing to others.

 He gets the message and makes a hasty retreat. Behind you, Tar-Míriel laughs.

 “I had been thinking about making a pilgrimage up the mountain,” she murmurs. “But I do not think we shall receive permission from the King anymore.”

 “The holiest place lies within one’s own mind,” you respond. The quote was one of Enedwen’s favorites, even if it is not quite true to its source.

 The guard looks torn between wanting to harrumph again and wanting to keep his throat in one piece. You smile at him, lips closed, and return to your seat.

 “My master may be a guest of yours, but no doubt your husband can find it within the bounds of his hospitality to indulge us in some sightseeing.”

 “ _Guest_ ,” Míriel repeats, the mirth fading from her voice. The porcelain of her cup clinks as she sets it down; her hand is shaking.

 “Did you know that your husband all but demanded that I perform at his dinner tonight, like some common chattel? I believe that the traditional invocation to Varda is exactly what he needs.”

 “He will kill you,” Míriel whispers.

 You remember the taste of blood, the feeble struggles of the guard you dined on last. “I don’t believe he can.” Besides, you may be hard to kill, but Annatar’s wrath could sink this island beneath the Sea.

 “He will still kill the others, you know. The musicians. The other slaves.”

 She probably wouldn’t appreciate knowing that you never planned on leaving them alive. Better that they feed you rather than waste their deaths fulfilling some petty tyrant’s petty revenge.

 ”My dear,” you say. “Some sacrifices must be made.” 

* * *

 

Somehow, Pharazôn manages to sit through an entire recital praising the merits of Varda’s stars without batting an eyelash. Presumably because he – and the rest of his court – wouldn’t recognize Quenya if it came up and bit them in the throats, you realize when you deliberately flub one of the lines. Annatar, on the other hand, looks at you like he isn’t sure whether to laugh or shout. You blow him a kiss and keep on dancing.

 Míriel is smiling, an enormous delighted smile, for the first time since you’ve seen her, so you count it a victory. The applause you receive is also immensely gratifying.

 You wonder if they would appreciate tales of old Elven follies. The shattered sculptures and desecrated murals tells you they might.

 So, when you are called upon to perform again the next night, you regale them with old legends. _I was there_ , you do not say. Instead, you rephrase old traumas and regrets into a cautionary tale. Pharazôn laughs when you tell him how your uncles were burned by the very jewels they had fought so hard to regain, and you think briefly on how very satisfying it would be to rip his throat out.

 And you keep going. You tell tales spanning the entirety of the First Age of the Sun. You paint Men as saviors to the Eldar. You tell the tales of Beren and Túrin (may he choke eternally on the blood of the friends he’d slain) and Tuor. You tell of the betrayal of Celegorm and carefully omit Maglor’s bloody vengeance.

 And Pharazôn loves it. It is not only the domination of Men he craves, you realize, but the casting down of Elves. It is why he would desecrate memorials to his ancestors, why he would take your people as slaves even unto their deaths.

 It is lucky for you, then, that he thinks you to be some sort of lesser Maia, some subcreation of Thuringwethil’s, rather than an Elf. You will try not to disabuse him of the notion.

 Finally, a month after you started, at what would have been a feast celebrating Yavanna’s bounty, you recount the rout at Tol Sirion. Annatar is relaxed, his guard down as he too remembers what would have been a powerful victory for him.

 You decide to tell them your story.

 Pharazôn likes you enough by now, you think, that Annatar would have a difficult time keeping him from hearing your tale. So you weave your story. An Elf-lord, broken-hearted and mourning the losses of war. A bright spirit, offering healing and knowledge. Offering beauty and redemption. The hard work of four centuries. Betrayal. Downfall.

 When your tale is over, you sneak a peek at Pharazôn. He is laughing, delighted. He thinks nothing of your story. Annatar is whispering into his ear.

 You find yourself hating him.

* * *

“Tyelpe, my sweet, you really must curb your tongue sometimes,” Annatar croons. He speaks in the language he invented, one of the few not already banned on this ridiculous island. One hand reaches out to fist itself into your hair, pulling you downward. You let it guide you.

 His lips are at your ear, hot breath puffing against the thin skin there. “Did you really think,” he growls, scarcely more than a whisper, “that you could attempt to undermine me? That you would have even a ghost of a hope of succeeding? I thought I taught you better than that.”

 You dredge up old memories from before the time you died. They are faded and distant, like they belonged to someone else. “You did,” you admit easily. You turn to plant a bloody kiss on his nose. “And then you brought me back. We both know how this goes.”

 “You’ve been feeding,” Annatar scolds, wiping the blood from his face.

 You kiss him again. “We both know that I am living proof of how terrifying you can be to your friends.”

 “Spoilsport.”

 “Stop ruining the mood.” You slide your hands down the front of his robes, undoing the clasps. “We have an image to maintain.”

 You feel his sigh like wind through a bellows, contained by the fine tracery of flesh and bone and muscle beneath your hands. “We both know that this is not where your redeeming qualities lie, Tyelpe.”

 “But Pharazôn doesn’t.”

 Annatar’s robes are off. You move to discard your own. It seems you both have the same disregard toward Numenorean undergarments.

 “Do you remember that red vegetable they served us? The cabbage? Its pigment is a wonderful broad-spectrum indicator. There may be problems in encouraging the plant to grow in drier climates, but it could be used as a soil acidity marker.” You leave a row of tiny kisses along his neck and he shivers, responding eagerly beneath your hands. “Of course, a more prominent application may lie in the testing of the acidity of waste water.”

 “We already have indicators for those,” Annatar murmurs, pushing you on your back. His fingers trace intricate patterns and mathematical formulae along the contours of your stomach. “Think bigger.”

 “Please tell me this isn’t related to your pet project to harvest the light of the Sun,” you sigh, nipping at his collarbone. Annatar will never bleed for you again, but you have discovered his delight for play-violence.

 “Spoilsport,” Annatar sighs, reaching down to trace his way up your thighs.

* * *

“I know what you did,” Míriel says. Her face is drawn and pale; with fear, you think, and not any particular illness. “You are him, aren’t you?”

 “This would help,” you suggest, “if you told me who ‘him’ is.”

 “Celebrimbor. The Elf-lord. The one who was betrayed by Sauron.”

 You aren’t sure which answer will reassure her less. Instead, you take her hand and kiss it gently. She flinches at your touch.

 “I am Tar-Mairon’s pet monster,” according to the court, “and his confidante, and colleague, and yes, occasional lover. Who I was before that is no longer relevant.”

 Míriel traces the curve of your ear, looking sad. You find yourself unreasonably offended. It isn’t you, after all, who was married against your will, or deprived of her rightful power on mere suspicion of treachery. You _did_ betray Annatar, and you _did_ manage to get yourself killed at his hands, but he at least brought you back to life, gave you supernatural strength and a place as his lieutenant. Even if it does feel like most of your time since has been spent monitoring crop growth and taxing the trade caravans traveling through the Sea of Nurnen.

 And, of course, there is the complicated nature of your personal relationship with Annatar.

 Míriel follows the line of your thoughts, coming to her own conclusion.

 “Thank you for your time,” she says. “I do not expect we shall meet again.”

 “Oh, I don’t know,” you say lightly. “I was given a standing invitation to attend lectures at the university, and I was hoping you’d come. It might make for a less… suspicious atmosphere.”

 But Míriel is shaking her head, withdrawing herself even if she still sits near you. You choose to leave before the silence becomes awkward.

* * *

“Look at them go,” Sauron says, viciousness warring with satisfaction in his voice. “The fools.”

 “We should go too,” you say as the trumpets of the war fleet blare, deafening. “If the Valar would sink Beleriand, they would not hesitate to do the same to Numenor.”

 Sauron hesitates. “Go if you must,” he says. “But I am expected here.”

 This seems like such a sad way to part. “Don’t you dare go starting any cults of Melkor while I’m away.” Your voice cracks at the end. It wasn’t a very good joke, anyways.

* * *

 

The road to the Meneltarma is empty and overgrown. Flowers sprout between paving-stones that trace a path only a few people have ever made. It seems like sacrilege to follow their footsteps now, being what you are, but there are questions that need answering and in any case you have never been good at avoiding censure.

 You meet Míriel along the path, her attendants carefully shepherding her up the steps. They flee at your presence.

 Time has not been kind to her. She looks frail now, and tired in a way you have only seen in the soon-to-be-dead. But her gaze is firm when she looks at you, and her step is slow but sure when she takes your arm and the two of you make the journey, two imperfect, half-lost children following in the footsteps of giants.

 As the two of you crest a rise, she clutches your arm and points to the horizon.

 “Look,” she says. It is the first word she has spoken to you since that day she recognized you so long ago, so you look.

 “We should hurry.” It looks like the Valar do intend to stage a repeat of Beleriand.

 The wave comes rapidly, rising until it swallows the horizon. You abandon any pretense of equality and take Míriel into your arms, her heartbeat pulsing rabbit-quick with fright, and run as fast as you can up the mountain.

 The wave hits, and for a moment you are lost in cold salt water and the heavy roar of thunder traveling through a medium much thicker than air.

 Then it recedes, and the two of you are alone, wet and bedraggled at the altar of her ancestors, and you are screaming, screaming with all the fear and desperation and lack of understanding _why_ could any creator-god be responsible for everything that has ever gone wrong in the world, why it would allow the Valar to sink Beleriand under the Sea and Annatar to be Sauron and you a monster, why it could let such a thing as war and famine and death into the world and why why _why_ did it have to be you? Why did _you_ have to be the monster, the vampire, the fallen one?

 And below you, Míriel is praying at the altar, shivering with pain and cold and shock, her long dress sea-soaked, her finery bedraggled, her hair grey and stringy and wet.

 Such a long way the two of you have come.

 Then an Eagle swoops down and snatches you into the air. No, not an Eagle, but a Maia in the shape of one. You have long since learned to tell the difference. Another Eagle, a true Eagle, stays behind, circling the Meneltarma. In the distance, to the East, you see an armada flying the banner of the Faithful, battered but proud, sailing toward the now-sunken island.

 Míriel will be rescued. That thought is comforting as you are flown through the breaking of the world. Míriel will live, and Sauron is too stubborn to die from something like this. Besides, he has his Ring still. He can recover in time. Knowing that they both escaped oblivion is all the comfort you need as you are carried – once again not entirely willing – toward your own judgment.

 You can only hope the Valar will be kind, for once.


End file.
